


Hold Tight

by mekana47



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Pre-Canon, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26118130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mekana47/pseuds/mekana47
Summary: “Booker,” Andy says, her voice taking no shit. That tone always says ‘if you have a comm and a working mouth, you’d better answer me,’ but this time, he also hears the panicked, ‘get to Nicky now.’-or-On a mission in the early 2000s, Booker tries to provide comfort while Nicky revives and heals a major injury.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Nicky | Nicolo di Genova
Comments: 81
Kudos: 582





	Hold Tight

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd.

Booker flips the last assailant over his shoulder, twists, and fires a clean shot through the man’s temple. The body lands beside the other four men who thought Booker would be an easy target. He’d let them corner him down a side street of what had been small village until a two-bit crime lord scared off the locals and made it a compound for his kidnap-and-ransom scheme. 

The cadence of Andy and Joe’s occasional murmur on the comms washes over him as Booker darts across the main street. He half-expects a rifle round in the thigh. No buildings are tall enough for a sniper, but they spent so long making sure there weren’t any innocent people in the area that the imminent sunrise is making them all easier targets. He ducks behind an adobe fence without taking any fire. 

Joe’s voice kicks up a level of anxiety, but Booker ignores him. By the time he could get to the other side of the compound, that fight will be over.

Besides, Nicky’s been quiet for far too long.

If he’s fallen, it’s not a big deal to leave him where he is to resuscitate and rejoin the fight when he can. Sometimes it’s even necessary, but Nicky should’ve been up by now, adding his own comments on the comms.

Swallowing down his concern, Booker rushes through the battered front door of the house he’d last seen Nicky enter. He ducks through a doorway, gun sweeping the room even as he silently dodges the bodies marred with Nicky’s perfect headshots. The lights are off, but he clears the next two rooms with sharp, methodical precision.

The complete silence is unnerving. There’s no one here.

Easing through the kitchen, he keeps his breath steady even as his anxiety grows. It’s not that Nicky can’t take care of himself, but if someone’s taken him, it’s better to know before Joe and Andy kill everyone who might have information.

Booker pauses at the end of the kitchen and swings around the corner, gun ready for anyone, but he freezes at the sight of backyard covered in a haze of dust. Something has turned the back wall of large living space into piles of rubble. The contents of the room are scattered, shattered, and blackened along the interior. A small fire burns through a rug, and another one is destroying what must have been curtains before they were blown across the room. 

As Booker stares at the evidence, the memory of the explosion comes rushing back to him. He’d assumed it was Andy and ignored it.

“Nicky?” Booker lowers his gun to point at what’s left of the tile floor. 

He picks his way over concrete, stucco, and what must have been the dining room table. At the edge of the house, he clears the backyard, but whoever did this either fled or died in their own blast.

He turns back to the rubble. Two boots stick out from under a section of collapsed wall, but they aren’t Nicky’s. After a moment, he spots an arm jutting from under some debris Booker can’t even discern, but that’s not Nicky either.

Nicky hadn’t called out a warning on the comms, so he wouldn’t have had time to hide. With a sigh to cover the curse he’d rather be shouting, Booker lets the strap across his body armor take his gun and starts pulling up the largest bits of wreckage.

He finds Nicky’s leg crunched at an inhuman angle against the frame of a couch, half a wall on top of him, and Booker does curse, reverting to his mother tongue out of habit. He’s never been more grateful that the others expect and ignore his constant muttered curses. He wouldn’t be able to handle Joe’s questions, not until he has something to tell him.

He heaves off three largest chunks of the wall and twists away.

He’d once thought he’d get used to seeing his teammates missing large sections of their body, but the way his stomach rebels, he knows it’ll never be true.

Booker forces himself to look again, skirting past Nicky’s wide dead eyes to his torso. A mess of blood and intestines and who knows what else seeps across the floor. His tac vest and his shirt hang around his neck and one shoulder providing no protection from whatever tore a hole clean through his abdomen.

Booker shifts another fragment of adobe off Nicky’s shoulder, clearing space to straighten him out and let him heal in place, but the surrounding debris slides into the hole he’s made and the roof gives an ominous creak. He doesn’t waste time analyzing the infrastructure. Instead, he scoops Nicky under the shoulders and pulls him up and over the last bit of the wall and into the open air. They cover the stepping stones and the grass with a bright red streak.

A low but solid fence surrounds the yard on all three sides, and Booker pulls him toward the trees for just that bit of extra protection. Panting, he collapses back against the largest tree, leaving Nicky practically sprawled across his chest. It’s too much effort to lay him down flat, so Booker settles in for the wait, his head tipped back against the trunk, breath still coming out too rough.

Once he feels his heart rate settle, he moves his gun for easier access. He pulls off the useless remains of Nicky’s shirt and vest before using his beanie to wipe as much dust away from Nicky’s eyes as he can. He doesn’t bother to move Nicky from his chest, even as blood and other fluids he definitely doesn’t want to think about soak down his tac vest and into his pants.

“Nicky?” Joe’s voice comes over the comms.

Booker has no idea when their gunfire stopped, but they must’ve noticed Nicky’s silence too.

“Booker,” Andy says, her voice taking no shit. That tone always says ‘if you have a comm and a working mouth, you’d better answer me,’ but this time, he also hears the panicked, ‘get to Nicky now.’

“I’ve got him,” Booker says. “He’s down, and it’s definitely kinder not to wake him right now.”

Joe makes a pained noise. “He’s healing?”

Booker’s throat turns dry as he leans over Nicky’s shoulder, trying to get a better look at the wound in the weak pre-dawn light, even though the slick sound of intestines sliding back into place had given him that answer minutes ago. “Yeah, he’s rebuilding a few organs though. I don’t know what they hit him with, but it’s not pretty.”

“You’re secure?” Andy asks.

Booker looks around the garden again. It’s a bit more open than he’d favor for rebuilding a decent-sized chunk of his own torso, but they aren’t going to get anything better until Nicky is mobile. 

“A little exposed,” he admits, “but no sign of movement.”

Nicky’s body squelches, and Booker leans away automatically, no matter that his pants are pressed against literal organs. The sounds still make him squeamish.

Something explodes in the distance, loud enough that Booker catches the echo over the comms.

Joe gives an annoyed grunt, and Andy growls. “We’ve got another wave here.”

“Need me?” Booker asks, unconsciously tugging Nicky a little closer. As miserable as it is to revive alone, especially after the toll of healing such a major injury, Nicky can handle it if necessary.

“Just one truck,” Joe murmurs. “Five men. RPGs.”

Booker grimaces. That’s probably what got Nicky then, a rocket-propelled grenade straight to the abdomen. Fuck this new millennium and its easy access to wartime weapons.

“We’ve got this,” Andy says. “Stay with Nicky.”

“Will do, boss.”

Andy starts relaying instructions, and Booker tunes them out again, but he drags his own gun closer just to be sure. An RPG could take out both of them when they’re pressed this close.

It can’t be a minute later that Nicky gasps awake, trying to sit up and curl in on himself at the same time when he’s missing the necessary muscles to do both. One of his hands flies toward his abdomen even as he bites off a scream, still trying to conceal his location in the midst of agony.

“It’s okay.” Booker says, intercepting his arm. It’s instinct to try to touch the source of pain, but their brains can’t handle their hands passing through a section of their body they know ought to be there and will be there again. He squeezes Nicky’s fingers and wraps his other arm around Nicky’s chest to try to take some of his weight. “Nicky, I’ve got you.”

Nicky’s free hand snaps up to catch the back of Booker’s neck, clenching down hard enough he has to be leaving the briefest of bruises. “Book?”

Waking up with a warm body pressed along his back, of course Nicky would’ve assumed it was Joe.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’ve got you.”

Nicky hisses something that could be a word or could just be noise and squeezes his neck once, an acknowledgement or maybe gratitude. 

He sags back against Booker’s chest as much as his body will allow him to relax. Propping him upright was a mistake, but Booker’s not going to try to move him now.

Nicky releases his neck to clench his own thigh, gritting teeth around a gasping whine. There’s a fair chance the shock and still missing organs will kill him again. Nicky might even prefer that.

Booker rubs his nose into Nicky’s dusty, sweaty hair and murmurs, “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Nicky’s turns into the touch. His eyes water with pain, dust, and the dryness of dying with his eyes open. He pants, ragged and suffering, but trying to keep quiet for all they’re still technically on a battlefield.

“Worse than the landmine,” Nicky slurs, eventually, and Booker has to take a moment to separate the words. 

He doesn’t dare ask which landmine he means because each one has been terrible.

“At least you’re warm,” Nicky mumbles.

If Nicky’s talking, it’s probably safe to let go of his hand, so Booker does. Nicky doesn’t bother to move, but Booker brings his hand up to wipe away the line of blood running from Nicky’s mouth and add it to the mess on his pants. Then he cups the side of Nicky’s head, holding him a little more firmly to his chest. Comforting words die in his throat, but he can do this. He can ground Nicky through the pain, exhaustion, and disorientation.

Slowly, Nicky settles, uncurling the slightest bit. “The others?” he slurs.

“Sorry. You’re stuck with me.”

Something in Booker’s tone or posture must betray him, because Nicky pulls back just far enough for his red-rimmed eyes to meet Booker’s own. Booker’s fingers slide out of his hair.

“I meant,” Nicky says, his words still sliding together in his mouth, “they’re okay? Without you?”

“They’ll let me know if they need me,” Booker says.

Nicky arches an eyebrow. They both know Booker would barely hesitate to disobey the order to stay with Nicky if he thought Andy needed backup. 

He tugs on Nicky’s shoulders to get him to settle again, and Nicky collapses against him too willingly. Almost two hundred years working together says Nicky isn’t going to let the conversation drop, so Booker pauses to listen to the silence on the comms. Silence doesn’t necessarily mean anything good or bad. They could be dead, but it’s more likely they’re moving in tandem with hand signals and familiarity from the days they didn’t have easy access to each other’s voices.

“It’s silent,” Booker says, trying to shrug before realizing he shouldn’t jar Nicky.

Nicky hums, and Booker considers offering him his comm. If something does come up, though, the few seconds it takes Nicky to relay the message could be crucial, and Booker’s not up for taking any more risks on this mission.

Eventually, Nicky slumps even further, but he’s still panting. He’s not unconscious then, just trusting Booker to take his weight and trying to breathe through it all.

Something thuds inside the house, and Booker snaps his gun around, the trigger half pulled before the wall Nicky had been beside gives way in a tumble of debris. A ceiling beam cracks louder than any gunshot, and Booker nearly pulls the trigger out of instinct. The joist bangs into the floor sending a cascade of terra cotta tiles, tumbling and shattering. Dust plumes into the air, but the building materials stay where they’ve fallen.

His ears ring for several seconds after everything’s settled, and Booker lets himself feel vindicated that getting Nicky out of there was the right choice, after all.

“We’re good,” he murmurs, more for Joe and Andy if they heard the crash, if they’re paying any attention to him.

Nicky snorts, then keens, loud and sharp, and curls in on himself as much as he can while missing muscles and caught in Booker’s hold. “Fuck, don’t make me laugh.”

Booker rifles his fingers through Nicky’s hair in apology and rubs his bicep, trying to get warmth back into his cold flesh.

Something in Nicky’s torso pops. Booker jumps, but Nicky just groans, rolling his forehead into Booker’s neck as one of his legs jerks reflexively. The need to move must be getting to him. When the body’s been through so much trauma, sometimes sitting still and waiting to heal is the hardest part.

“How bad is it?” Nicky asks, and he sounds like he’s getting fuller breaths now.

“What?”

“Me.” His breath brushes where Booker’s shirt meets his neck. “How much to go?”

Booker swallows hard and shifts around to get a clear look at Nicky’s wound. The light from the sunrise shows the bright white of hipbone in stark relief to all the reds, and a kidney is still exposed on a bed of innards. Booker holds his breath to fight back the nausea.

“That bad,” Nicky says like it’s a fact.

Booker tips his head back against the tree trunk and blows out a noisy breath. “It’s not a through-and-through anymore.”

Nicky’s head lolls onto his shoulder. “Explains why my back tickles.” 

Booker lets his hand drift back into Nicky’s hair, trying for soothing strokes even as he knocks loose bits of wall and spreads the blood splatter. He likes it when one of others plays with his hair when he’s healing major wounds. Andy says it tricks the nerves into focusing on something other than the place where they’re exposed and regrowing in jagged fits and starts, but Booker just thinks it feels nice.

Nicky curls his own hand around Booker’s forearm across his chest, just holding and breathing in sync. 

“Clear,” Joe’s voice comes through the comm, and Booker twitches but doesn’t jostle Nicky this time.

A moment later, Andy adds her own, “Clear. Booker, what’s your status?”

“Nicky’s conscious and talking. Still wounded, blood loss-drunk, probably not up for walking yet.”

“I can walk,” Nicky murmurs into his throat, and Booker fights down the shiver.

“Must’ve lost his comm in the blast,” Booker adds unnecessarily.

“And you?” Andy asks.

“Me? I’m fine. You need me?” 

Nicky’s still slurring more than Booker’d like, but he’ll leave him if he needs to get a car or provide a diversion.

““We’ll come to you,” Andy says and something clunks on her end. “Where are you?”

Booker relays the best directions he can, given that the house looks fine from the street and probably looks different now that the sun’s fully in the sky. “We can meet you out front?”

“No, stay there. He needs to heal as much as he can. It’ll be a rough ride out of here.”

Booker grunts his agreement. The road hadn’t been pleasant on the drive in when they were all in top form and moving slowly to avoid being spotted. The frantic ride out is going to be miserable.

Nicky groans, his hand spasming on Booker’s forearm before he curls further into Booker’s chest. 

Booker squeezes him the slightest bit tighter, realizes he’s stopped stroking his hair, and starts again. Now that the others are on their way, he says, “Joe, I can give him my comm, if you want.”

Joe sighs. “Let him rest. I’ll see him soon enough.”

“Understood,” Booker says, and the others fall silent.

He lets himself drift in a ready-state, carding fingers through Nicky’s hair, cheek resting on top of his head, until a car door opens and closes out front. He pulls his hand free and aims his gun at the path along the side of the house. Whoever is approaching isn’t trying to be silent, and that, more than anything, makes Booker think it’s the team.

Joe steps around the corner, his gun sweeping the perimeter and taking in the damage to the house before giving them a look so fond Booker has to break eye contact.

“Time to move,” Booker murmurs into Nicky’s hair.

Nicky murmurs something he can’t catch but shifts forward enough that Booker can squeeze out from between him and the tree. He lets his gun hang freely and jams his beanie back on his head, ignoring whatever’s on it. It can’t be worse than what’s running down his leg now that he’s upright.

A glance at Nicky’s wound shows the muscle has reformed, and the skin is healing quickly enough that he could watch the progress if he wasn’t so ready to get out of this place.

He catches Nicky by the armpits and hefts him upright. Nicky muffles a cry and stumbles as his new muscles stretch and his wound seeps. 

Booker slings Nicky’s arm over his shoulder and forces him to take the first step toward Joe. Nicky sways, dizzy, and Booker tightens his grip. His body may be nearly unblemished, but it’ll take longer to get his blood supply back to normal. 

“Don’t make me carry you,” Booker says even as they find a rhythm, Nicky moving forward on his own while Booker keeps him from listing too far side-to-side. 

“I’d like to see you try,” Nicky says with only a little too much effort to keep his breath.

Booker almost points out he dragged him out of the building, but it doesn’t seem funny yet, not when each step fills his boot with more of Nicky’s blood.

As they skirt around the debris that’s spilled into the yard, Joe turns to take point to the front corner of the house. He sweeps the area and moves to the opening in the fence, sweeping again, even though Andy would’ve told them if anyone was around.

“Yellow car,” Joe says.

Booker grunts and leads Nicky to the battered, barely yellow car sitting in front of the house next door. Andy’s completely still but doesn’t bother to mask her horror as she watches from the driver’s seat. 

Joe sweeps past them, clapping a hand on Nicky’s shoulder, then Booker’s before moving around to stand at the passenger door.

Nicky chokes on a pained whine as Booker tips him onto the backseat and shoves his ridiculously long legs inside. Booker rushes around the car and climbs in next to him. 

Andy pulls away as soon as Joe’s inside, barely bothering to dodge the bodies Booker had left in the street earlier. 

Nicky grunts at a particularly fast turn. Booker reaches over to prop him upright and tug on the seatbelt, surprised that it works and less surprised when Nicky settles against his shoulder, eyes slipping nearly closed again.

As they clear the boundary of the compound, Booker unclips his gun to settle it comfortably across his lap. Joe’s so alert in the front seat, he’ll spot any threat before Booker even has a chance. 

“If you want some honest answers, now’s your chance.” Booker breaks the tense silence. “No one?” he asks, trying to recall anything Nicky avoids discussing. “Well, I, for one, want to know what really happened with the general, the cat, and the whiskey in Grenada.”

Nicky snorts, flinches, and elbows him right where the tac vest doesn’t cover with a surprising amount of strength. As Booker doubles over, Joe’s shoulders loosen, and Andy catches his eyes in the rearview mirror. Her quiet approval comes through even as Nicky squawks, “I told you not to make me laugh.”


End file.
